


With Shortness of Breath

by CaptainOptimism



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: A Letter to an Old Friend, Angst, Character Death, Emo Angie, F/F, Femslash, Gay, Very angst, very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 01:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5847871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOptimism/pseuds/CaptainOptimism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angie writes a letter to a very special Agent</p>
<p>"The thought of holding someone else’s hand and listening to someone else’s heartbeat makes me nauseous."</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Shortness of Breath

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS SAD. I'M SORRY.  
> (Also please leave your responses to this in the comments or on my twitter or tumblr tyvm  
> Twitter: https://twitter.com/agntcrter  
> Tumblr: http://carterskarnstein.tumblr.com/ )

Friday, November 27, 1953

 

I told myself it was a vow of silence; a blank period where my thoughts would go unexpressed and my voice would go muffled

You were my journal, my safe place, my home.

The warm embrace I needed to get me through this never-ending, world shattering, mind bending winter that I was sure would get me to admit defeat.

But now that blank period is looking more like a blank lifetime, and it’s taken all of the courage I have to get me this far.

It’s been five years, nine months, and twelve days – That’s a total of 2112 days that I didn’t have your laugh to hear at the end of a day that made me want to drop to the ground and cry.

301 weeks and 5 days that I didn’t have your soft hair to run my fingers through when I just wanted to be close to you.

And I could go into even more detail about the amount of pain you’ve caused me in all of those hours and minutes and seconds, but it’d make me feel even worse about blaming you for this whole ordeal.

But who else is there left to blame, my love?

No, you didn’t put the gun to your head, that was someone else’s doing, but you did promise me every morning that you would come home safe to me.

“Angie, darling, you worry too much.”

“I can protect myself.”

“I couldn’t leave my girl behind.”

I don’t know how you did it with Steve, Peg, I really don’t know.

I could give myself comfort and say that I eased some of that pain, and that I offered you a shoulder to cry on, but how in God’s name did you let me even touch you, let alone kiss you and love you?

The thought of holding someone else’s hand and listening to someone else’s heartbeat makes me nauseous.

I don’t want to remember you. I don’t want memories of the surprises you gave me or the chills you sent running through my body or the way you used to have a smudge of red on the corner of your lips after I’d kissed you. But you’re so impossible to forget.

The late, great Peggy Carter.

You buried yourself into my brain and heart and every fiber of my being like a nasty little parasite.

But, as odd as this may sound, you were my parasite. Loving you made me feel like I was living with one of the most incurable ailments known to mankind, and I felt so lucky that you chose me to infect; To ruin.

Five years ago, some heartless son of a bitch decided to rob the world of one of the finest creatures to ever walk this earth.

Five years ago, I had write to your mother and tell her that her only living child would now be buried alongside her father and three siblings.

I almost didn’t mail it, Peg. God help me, I almost let that woman die thinking that her sweet, sweet Margaret would be mourning at her funeral, standing above her burial plot as opposed to being laid next to her in her own coffin.

I have so many regrets.

I regret letting you leave the house that February morning, I regret crying when the doctors called me (Of course, being the romanticist you were, you assigned me as your emergency contact. I was listed under housemate.) because I knew how strong you’d want me to be.

I regret not holding your mother’s hand at the funeral and letting her know what a powerful impact her daughter’s friendship had on me. I regret every fight we ever had. I regret not singing more love songs to you, and I regret not holding you more (although one of us, who shall go unnamed, did constantly insist that she be the big spoon and I be the little because “it just makes more sense that way”)

I don’t regret loving you.

I am so, truly in love with you.

I would hear whole orchestras burst out into song each time you spoke.

I remember smelling your hair and deciding that if I were ever to drown, I’d want to drown in you and your essence.

You used to hold my hand when the lights would dim at the cinema, and I swear my heart would stop until the darkness was gone and you had to let go of me.

I miss you, if you couldn’t tell.

I miss my journal, my safe place, my home.

I haven’t written in this thing since you left, but now I’m back at it; writing with a pen and paper until I get to see you again.

I made it five years, think I can make it ten?

Guess we’ll find out when ’58 hits.

I love you, and I can’t wait to hold your hand once more,

 

Angie Xx


End file.
